I remind myself she lived, and I remind myself she died. Sometimes I feel I’ve already forgotten my sister was ever a part of my life. Other times, it feels like business as usual…that if I picked up the phone and called her, she would answer. Maybe if there was closure… but her family remains silent.
Life is life these days. Progress is slow on my me room or whatever one calls it. She shed, studio, shack, den... I’d rather call it the library…if one can call journals the library. Packages coming through the post office seem to be hitchhiking on the backs of turtles, and my console will ship by freight after three weeks of sanitation. That seems overkill, so I’m thinking it’s more of a logistics issue.
Early daffodils are in bud, but all the other bulbs and corms are mere leaves reaching for the sun. Birdsongs float in all directions weaving a tapestry of early spring in the air that will not last, as spring and winter are always in an on again, off again March battle to warm or cool.
It seems sweater weather, but I enter this warming coolness without it, and walk and walk and walk without other colors of flowers. The weeds and birds reign today, but one morning an explosion of plants hell-bent on taking over the entire planet will occur…just mark my words.
It might be tomorrow. I can feel them now, planning their assault...heaven help the mortals with mere hand tools...they will be toast! The second wave of weed purgatory will unlash the dreaded vetches with their long tentacles, the cleaver plants with their hooked stems and leaves and burr seeds, goose grass, spurge, sweet Miss Dandelion, and on and on and on.